


Before She Knew Better

by misspensandscribbles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Childhood Memories, F/M, Family, Pre-Canon, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8345146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspensandscribbles/pseuds/misspensandscribbles
Summary: Sansa Stark wasn't always so distant and cold to Jon Snow.





	1. You are to me

Jon has always been a light sleeper. Since he was still a babe, even the smallest sound would wake him from his slumber. He never cried though, unlike Robb who could rouse the whole keep in the dead of night with his wailing. Jon would merely open his wide gray eyes as he searched for the cause of the noise.

It comes as no surprise, then, that the sound of light footsteps stirs him awake. Sitting up, he blearily rubs his eyes. He looks to the other side of the room where Robb is still fast asleep on his bed before turning to see the silhouette of his two-year-old sister in the middle of the doorway that connects their room to her nursery.

“Jon?” Her voice is as small as her little frame. There’s also a hint of nervousness in it that he can easily read though he knows she’s trying to hide it.

“Sansa?” he asks just above a whisper. He searches for her maid but doesn’t find her. “Where’s Harriet?”

She shrugs his shoulder. “She’s asleep.”

“What are you doing here?”

Silently, she tiptoes closer to him before stopping at the foot of his bed. She’s twirling her long auburn hair around one dainty finger while she bites her lower lip – a telltale sign of her nervousness.

The sight of her obvious fear breaks his heart a little. Being the youngest of the three in the room, Sansa has always been the most vivacious and bubbly. If she isn’t playing with her dolls and forcing him and Robb to join her, she’s constantly running after them, forcing them to let her join in their games. Some days, he and Robb would roll their eyes and begrudgingly give in to their baby sister’s relentless demand for their attention. Most days, however, they give it to her of their own accord, ever eager to make her happy. The two brothers have always competed to be the recipient of Sansa’s squeals of laughter, warm hugs and tender kisses. Her vivid blue eyes would sparkle brightly whenever she’s giddy with happiness, and in the presence of her brothers, her eyes always sparkled.

There is no spark in her eyes now, only fear. This prompts Jon to swing both his legs to the side of the bed and open his arms to her. “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

“I had a scary dream,” she whimpers as tears begin to stain her cheeks. And then without any trace of the hesitation she showed walking in his and Robb’s chamber, Sansa’s little feet shuffle toward him, her short arms already outstretched.

He catches her easily and envelopes her in his arms. He strokes her head gently the way he’s seen Lady Catelyn do whenever she cries. “There there, Sansa. It was just a dream,” he says softly. “You’re safe now.”

Sniffling, she unhooks her arms from his neck to meet his gaze. She juts her lower lip in a pout and looks at him with the most heartbreaking set of sapphire eyes. It’s a look no one in Winterfell has yet to say no to. It’s the look she uses so effortlessly whenever she trots to the kitchen to ask the cook for lemon cakes right after devouring the ones just made. It’s the face she shows him and Robb whenever she wants them to play dolls with her. It’s the reason why Ser Rodrik doesn’t punish them for arriving late at the practice yard for their training whenever Sansa manages to convince them to play with her a little bit longer. He once heard their lord father tell the Lady Catelyn their daughter could stop the coming winter with that pout alone.

Unlike those instances, however, Jon can see that there is no hidden motive behind her pleading look, which makes it all the more impossible to deny her of whatever it is she’s about to ask. But when Sansa asks him if she can sleep with him in his bed, Jon can’t help but hesitate. Even at the tender age of six, he knows that the Lady Catelyn would undoubtedly be upset with him even more than she usually is come morning if she sees her precious daughter in bed with her bastard brother.

“Don’t you want to sleep next to Robb?” he asks, putting a hand on top of her head.

She purses her lips together, scrunches her nose and shakes her head so fervently that her hair begins to cover her face. It brings a smile to Jon’s face. He’s always thought her adorable when she makes that face.

“Robb will surely make fun of me like he did the last time. Don’t you remember?”

He does.

It was just a fortnight ago. They had just met their father’s ward, Theon Greyjoy who was five years their senior. Robb, who immediately wanted to impress the older boy, felt mortified when Sansa innocently told Theon the story of how he climbed up the tallest tree in the godswood and was too afraid to come down, and Ser Jory had to come up and get him. In retaliation, Robb told them of how Sansa came running to his bed crying during one stormy night and begged him to hold her ‘til morning. Robb and Theon had laughed while Sansa ran away sobbing. Overcome with guilt later on that day, Robb apologized to her with a tray of lemon cakes, and all was forgiven.

 _But apparently not forgotten_ , he thinks now.

“He said he was sorry, didn’t he? I’m sure he won’t do it again,” he tells her.

“But I want to sleep next to _you_ ,” she insists, stomping one foot on the stone floor. “You never make fun of me no matter how many times Theon does. And,” she leans forward and motions for him to do the same. When he does, she cups her mouth with a hand as she whispers in her ear, “ _You’re_ my favorite brother today, Jon.”

He can’t help but smile at that. Ever since Sansa learned how to talk and say their names, he and Robb would always ask their sister who her favorite brother is. Being the sweet girl that she is, she always makes it a point to alternate between the two of them. Earlier today, when they asked her their usual morning query while breaking their fast, she had said Robb’s name.

Teasingly, he whispers in her ear, “You said Robb's name earlier today, Sansa. What would father think when he finds out you were lying?”

Her eyes widen in fear before she breaks into that charming little smile of hers. “I wasn’t lying,” she murmurs sweetly in his ear. “I was just being silly.”

Jon has to stifle the laughter that just about escapes him. _No wonder she has everyone wrapped around her little finger_ , he thinks, _she’s more clever than all of us combined_.

“Well, are you being silly _now?_ ” he asks.

She shakes her head solemnly, a sharp contrast to her earlier response. “I’m not being silly now. I trust you, Jon. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

He softens at that. “I won’t. I promise.”

“So can I sleep here with you? Just for the night,” she pleads again. “I promise I’ll go back to my own bed before dawn. Mama won’t know.”

It surprises him that she’s noticed the lack of affection Lady Catelyn has for him. But then again, she’s always been smart and observant.

“Jon,” she says when he hesitates. “Why does Mother always look at you strangely?”

He sighs. She’s always asked too many questions as well. With her wide eyes locked on his, Jon can’t find it in him to deny what she’s saying. He can’t tell her the truth either. He tells himself it’s because, young as he is, he still has some sense in him to know that a girl of two shouldn’t learn such upsetting things. A voice inside him, however, tells him that the thought of little Sansa looking at him the same way her lady mother does is a hundred times more painful than losing to Theon Greyjoy during sword practice.

“I reckon it’s because she doesn’t think I’m a good brother,” he answers finally. It’s close to the truth, he decides.

Again, she scrunches her nose like he’s just said something gravely improper before cupping his face with her hands. “You are to me,” she says with utmost sincerity, like she’s never been more sure of anything else.

He looks at her for a while with the most tender expression, his heart bursting with so much affection for his sister. And then wordlessly, he holds her under her shoulders and gently lifts her to the small space beside him. The grin she gifts him with as soon as she settles under his furs makes facing Lady Catelyn’s inevitable ire worth it.

It isn’t long before she lets out a yawn and closes her eyes. “Thank you, Jon.”

“Sleep now, Sansa,” he says with a smile.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles before sticking her thumb in her mouth. She knows she’s not supposed to do that. Septa Mordane would swat her hand away if she did that in her presence. She's never done it in front of others as well, no doubt worried that her lady mother will be displeased with her.

The fact that she does it in front of him anyway without worrying that he’ll tell on her or tease her makes him believe her even just for the night, that he may not be hertrue brother, but he is still very much a good one to her.

"Goodnight, little sister," he whispers as he softly kisses the top of her head.


	2. Careless whispers

Jon, Robb and Theon have just finished training in the yard with Ser Rodrik when he sees Sansa hurrying toward them, her maid trailing after her. He points her out to Robb who has his back to her.

“Look who it is! The Princess Sansa!” Robb shouts and bows his head the way he always does when they play knights and maidens. He and Theon follow suit, as does Ser Rodrik who sports a wide grin reserved only for Winterfell’s beloved little lady.

Robb bends down to one knee as Sansa nears them, but she doesn’t run into his arms the way she usually does. Instead, she stops just out of his reach and puts her hands on her hips, looking feisty as ever. “Robb, why are you and Jon going away?”

With the Lady Catelyn possibly giving birth any day now, it’s been decided that he and Robb move to a different chamber. His father had told him that it’s to make room for the newest Stark babe. Jon, however, doesn’t fool himself into believing that’s the only reason.

Although she promised to be out of his and Robb’s room before dawn that time she crept into his bed a fortnight ago and although she probably would’ve been able to do so, Sansa wasn’t able to foresee that Lady Catelyn would come to her chamber in the middle of the night and find her bed empty.

Jon, however, knew. Lady Stark would sometimes visit the nursery at night to check on her two children – not him, _never_ him – and he’d be awake for some of them, pretending to sleep while she sang songs for them. It’s during those nights when he would miss the mother he’s never known the most. The moment he bid Sansa goodnight, he said a prayer to the gods that her lady mother wouldn’t choose that night to visit.

The gods, however, were either too busy or too apathetic to hear his prayer that night because not an hour later, he was woken up by Sansa’s cry as she was suddenly pulled from his side by her mother. Slumber loosened his tongue, and he was just about to voice his protest when he was frozen into silence by Catelyn’s stony glare. He remembered then why he was so hesitant to let her in his bed in the first place. But that didn’t mean he regretted doing so.

That following morning, while Sansa slept in and the rest of them broke their fast, it was announced that he and Robb would move to a separate chamber from then on. Seeing Sansa with her brows knitted together and her lips pursed, Jon can only assume that she’s only just found out about it and is not entirely pleased with the arrangements. And he finds himself grateful to her for it.

“Oh you’re in trouble now, Robb,” Theon teases.

Ser Rodrik thumps him on the head. “It’s your turn to put away the weapons, Greyjoy. Get moving,” he barks at Theon before facing Sansa and bowing once more. “If you excuse me, my lady, I best make sure Theon here does his work good and proper.”

Sansa smiles at him sweetly and curtsies. “Of course, Ser Rodrik.”

As the two walk toward the armory, Robb gets back to his feet. “We’re just moving down the hall, little sister. So that our new brother or sister can sleep next to your room,” he says.

“But I don’t want a new brother or sister sleeping next to my room,” she argues. “It’s going to cry all the time, and I won’t be able to sleep anymore.”

Jon’s lips curve upward as Robb laughs, no doubt sharing the same thought as he. “You cried a lot too, little sister,” Robb says.

“No, I didn’t.” Sansa crosses her arms over her chest. “Mama and Harriet say I was the best babe, better than you and Jon. Right, Harriet?” She turns to her maid.

“Yes, mi’lady,” Harriet says as she tries to keep her expression from breaking into a smile.

For a moment, Jon considers teasing her by saying that Maester Luwin had told him _he_ was the most well-behaved babe. But then of course, Lady Catelyn wouldn’t tell Sansa that. It wouldn’t surprise him if Sansa’s lady mother had said that Theon Greyjoy was a better babe than him, no matter that the ten-year-old boy arrived in Winterfell just a week ago. And besides, he has no qualms about Sansa being bestowed the title.

“Don’t you want to be close to the babe when it’s born?” he asks her instead.

She shakes her head.

“Why? I thought you were excited to meet our new sibling,” Robb says.

Sansa bites her lip and looks down at her feet. “I don’t want a new sibling anymore,” she murmurs. “You will all forget about me when the babe comes.”

At her confession, both he and Robb exchange looks before dropping to their knee to meet her at eye level. Robb takes one of her hand in his own. He wishes to do the same, but he remembers that out here in the open where Lady Catelyn and anyone else can see, he isn’t allowed the same privilege, especially not after what happened last night.

“Of course not, little sister,” Rob reassures her. “Trust me, you’re quite unforgettable.”

“That’s not true. Everyone keeps talking about the babe now,” she mutters, eyes still trained on the ground.

“That doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten you, Sansa,” Jon says now. “You’re going to be a big sister soon. And then you’ll have someone new to take care of, like one of your dolls.”

“And you’ll have a new playmate,” Robb adds. “Would you like that?”

Slowly, she nods. She looks up at her older brother then. “Must I share my lemon cakes with the babe?”

This time, even Jon and Harriet can’t keep their laughter from spilling forth from their lips. Robb tugs Sansa closer until she’s wrapped around his arms. “No, dear sister,” he says. “You can still have all the lemon cakes you want. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll even give you my share if it makes you happy.”

“Mine as well,” he adds with a smile.

She sighs in relief. _Surely she’s the only living soul in all the Seven Kingdoms who treats lemon cakes like they’re gold,_ he thinks with a smile.

“Okay then,” she concedes. “I guess it’s alright for both of you to move to another room.

A wide grin stretches across both his and Robb’s faces, amused by the little girl’s belief that her permission was sorely needed. They don’t need to pretend that they’re glad of it though, for they much rather be on the receiving end of Sansa’s warm hugs and endless chatter than her stony silence and pointed glares.

“Come now, mi’lady,” Harriet says, coming over to stand beside her charge. “It’s time for your lessons with Septa Mordane.”

“Yours as well, little lords,” Ser Rodrik pipes up from behind them with Theon in tow. “I’m sure Maester Luwin is already waiting for you.”

“Off you go, little sister,” Robb tells her as he pulls back from their embrace. “You know how Septa Mordane gets when you’re late.”

She tilts her chin up and says matter-of-factly,” I’m never late.”

“Well then, now’s not the time to start,” Jon says.

Surprising him and everyone else, Sansa turns to him and gives him a hug as well, burying her face in the crook of his neck. It’s so sudden that Jon instinctively returns it, knowing all the while that Lady Catelyn will undoubtedly be even more cross with him for doing so but frankly not caring.

“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” she whispers in his ear.

Jon tries not to cringe. The last thing he wants is for Sansa to blame herself. “Do not fret over it, little one. You did nothing wrong,” he whispers back. “It’s alright.”

“Can I still sleep with you if I have nightmares?”

He knows he should say no, especially when there are others nearby who can possibly overhear. And yet this is Sansa in is arms. Sansa, who always gets what she wants because all she ever wants are good things. And so he whispers back, “Of course.”

She beams at him before taking Harriet’s hand and letting her maid lead her toward the keep.

“Looks like you’re her favorite brother today, Jon,” Robb says good-naturedly as they both stand.

“Well, if the babe turns out to be a boy, neither of us will be her favorite for long,” Jon replies.

Sansa might not know it yet, but he is sure that the second she meets their new sibling, she’ll fall in love with it the same way he and Robb did when she was born. He can’t help but think she’ll be a wonderful big sister.


	3. Old gods and bastards

Sansa runs down the hall, trying to stifle her giggles, and turns the corner just in time to collide with her beloved brother. They both fall backward upon impact. Sansa lands on her bottom with an almost confused and dazed look on her face, while Jon staggers back but is able to keep his balance. She watches him as the scene before him registers in his mind, and a look of panic suddenly washes over his face.

"Sansa! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asks, worry evident in his voice.

As soon as she sees Jon's frightened look, the bubbling excitement she's been feeling just moments ago comes rushing back tenfold, and so she doesn't even bother holding back the laughter that erupts within her. And when her brother's expression turns into genuine confusion, she holds her tummy as she laughs even harder.

"Sansa? What's gotten into you?" Jon kneels in front of her as he holds out his hands for her to take. "And where is Harriet?"

At his question, she immediately sobers up. She stands and toddles forward into his arms.

Before Jon can say any more, she covers his mouth with her small hand. "Shhh! She doesn't know where I am. I escaped!"

There's a gleam in her eyes that can only mean that she's never done such a thing before. And it's true; she hasn't. Sneaking away from her handmaiden is considered naughty, something Robb or Jon would do, but never Sansa. Jon seems to believe the same thing as the corner of his lips quirk upward in a smirk.

"Did you really?" he asks, clearly amused.

Sansa snickers. "Yes, when she wasn't looking. I was quite daring," she says with pride.

"I do not doubt it," he answers with a smile. "But why sneak off?"

She shrugs her shoulders, trying to seem indifferent but Jon doesn't miss the way she bites her lower lip. She always does it when she's embarrassed or hesitant about something.

Jon tucks a finger under her chin and tilts her head upward so that she has no choice but to meet his gaze. "Come now, little sister. You can tell me."

For a moment, she squints her crystal blue eyes at him, trying to decide whether or not she should tell him. She knows this could potentially get her into trouble if anyone were to find out that she disobeyed the cardinal rule. Their mother has always been explicitly firm about it - she is to never leave the keep without a guard or her handmaiden, or she'll be punished otherwise. The idea of being denied lemon cakes as punishment sends a jolt of genuine fear all over her body.

But this is Jon she's talking to. Jon, who's always been nothing but kind to her, sometimes kinder than Robb even.

Robb used to be her favorite brother, not only because they look alike with their blue eyes and copper hair. It was also because she'd always felt that Robb treated her more like a sister than Jon ever did. As young as she was then, she could see how Jon would sometimes act cautiously and reservedly with her, how he would hesitate for a split second whenever she asked him to play with her and how he would flinch just a tiny bit whenever she held his hand. She couldn't understand it. She'd known without a doubt that he loved her dearly, but sometimes she'd wonder if he actually _liked_ her.

Things began to gradually shift when Theon Greyjoy arrived in Winterfell though. The closer Robb got to Theon, the more Jon received and reciprocated her attentions with less hesitation and uncertainty. It was as if he could tell that she felt left behind and that she would sometimes lose her favorite brother to the strange, new boy, and he'd taken it upon himself to fill the hole Robb would leave. When Robb made her cry in front of Theon, and Jon was the one who chased after her and made her feel better, that was the moment she knew for certain that Jon loved her and liked her as much as Robb did, maybe even more.

She still adores Robb unconditionally, still favors him. Just not all the time, not anymore. Nowadays, the only thing that can rival her love for her gallant and handsome Robb is her love for her kind and gentle Jon. 

She prefers Robb when playing knights and maidens because she likes the way he carries her and spins her around and around until she's dizzy with laughter. Whenever Theon decides to pick on her and tease her, she can always count on Jon to put a stop to it, even go so far as to try and hurt him if he brings her to tears. When she scrapes her knee, Robb's the one who kisses her bruise and envelopes her in a tight embrace until the pain goes away. On the days that lemon cakes are served, Jon gives her a piece from his own without her ever needing to ask. And ever since that incident with Robb and Theon, she knows which brother she can entrust her secrets and hidden thoughts to.

"I don't like her," she finally murmurs. She knows it's unladylike and improper to say such things out loud. If their lady mother were to hear, she's sure to get a scolding.

"You don't like Harriet?"

She shakes her head. "Not when I want to pray in the godswood."

Jon looks at her strangely, not understanding what she means. Sansa rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"She says I should pray to the Seven, in the sept, like Mama. And I do. But sometimes, I want to pray to Papa's gods too. But when I pray to the heart tree, she keeps telling me to hurry, and I don't like that," she says, pouting. "If I pray too fast, the old gods might not understand me."

Her brother presses his lips together in an effort to keep himself from chuckling. "Sansa, I think the gods will hear you no matter how fast you pray."

She scowls at him. She loves him, truly she does, but sometimes he can be so frustratingly daft to her sensibilities. "That's not the point," she huffs. "The point is I don't want anyone interrupting me when I pray, lest the gods think me discourteous."

Jon stands up and eyes her curiously. "Is that where you're going now? To pray?"

"Mm-hmm," she answers simply. "Do you want to come pray with me?"

He quirks a brow at her. "I thought you don't want anyone disturbing your prayers?"

"But you won't do that, right? You pray to the old gods too, like Papa, Robb and me," she points out.

"Aye, I do."

"And you're my brother," she adds. "I think the old gods would pay us more attention if we prayed together."

He puts both hands on his knees and bends down to reach her eye level. "And what shall we pray for?"

"For Mama, silly," she says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Papa says we must, especially since the babe might come any day now Maester Luwin says. We have to pray for our new brother or sister."

She notices him hesitate the way he always does when she mentions their mother. It's quite similar to the way their mother hesitates when she mentions him, except his is always accompanied by a sense of discomfort whereas their mother's is always tinged with anger. Sansa's smart enough to not ask their mother why she seems to be at odds with her brooding brother. While she loves Jon immensely, the last thing she wants is to disappoint and displease their mother. So instead, she remains silent... silent yet observant.

"You don't need to if you don't want to," she says eventually. She straightens her back and puffs her tiny chest out. "I can pray on my own."

Her brother smiles at that. "I'm sure you can. But if it's alright with you, little sister, I would very much like to join you. Father is right. We should pray for the babe."

"And for Mama," she adds instinctively, which she immediately regrets. She's about to apologize - for what, she doesn't exactly know - but then Jon beats her to it.

He nods. "And for your lady mother," he says softly.

For a second, Sansa wants to correct him, to tell him that she's his lady mother too. But then she remembers the time in the training yard when Theon teased him about his mother not wanting him. It was the first time she'd seen Robb get mad at Theon, snapping at him and telling him not to talk about Jon's mother that way. And she remembers thinking,  _Jon's mother is our mother too, Robb._ And then as she was walking back to the keep with Harriet, she heard one of the stable boys call Jon a bastard. She so very much wanted to walk up to that chubby, freckled boy and tell him off, but she didn't know what that word meant. All she knew was that it sounded mean and ugly, and Jon was anything but.

Looking at Jon now, Sansa considers asking him what it means - the word bastard. But something about it and about the way that stable boy spat it out scares her into silence. It's a painful word, she knows that much, something people say to hurt others. And so she chooses not to say it because she's never one to say anything that would hurt anyone, especially Jon.

Instead, she unconsciously reaches out and takes his hand in hers, as though to make sure that he will not be taken from her, as though some hidden part of her fears that  _that_ word will tear them apart. It's only when he squeezes her hand that she realizes what she's done, and she's a bit surprised by it. He doesn't always let her hold his hand outside the confines of their room where anyone can see. 

"Let's go then," she says eventually. "Before Harriet finds me and tells Mama."

"And we can't let that happen, can we?" Jon says with a twinkle in his eye.

"No, we cannot. My honor as a lady depends on it," she answers earnestly as they begin walking.

Jon abruptly stops. She looks to him and finds him staring at her with guilt written all over his face.

"Jon? What's wrong?"

After a slight pause, he shakes his head and gives her one of his sad smiles. "Nothing, little one. Just... are you sure you want me to come with you?"

Sansa can't resist but roll her eyes at him.  _So, so frustratingly daft,_ she thinks again. "Yes, Jon. Ask me again, and I'll be just as cross with you as I am at Theon  _Greyjoy,_ " she says that last word with all the disdain a two-year-old can muster. She doesn't like him, and she knows Jon likes that she doesn't like him because he doesn't like him either.

Jon laughs loudly at that. "Oh, I certainly can't let  _that_ happen." Without so much as a warning, he lifts her onto his shoulders to her complete and utter delight, and together they make their way to the godswood.

She frames his face with her hands. "That won't ever happen, Jon. I swear it by the old gods."


	4. She looks like you

Unlike her last nighttime visit, Sansa announces her presence to his and Robb’s chamber loud enough to startle them awake. Both he and Robb shoot up from their bed at the same moment when Harriet bursts through their door with a wailing Sansa in her arms.

“Sansa! What happened?” Robb demands as he jumps out of his bed to meet his sister.

“Forgive me, mi’lord, but she insists on coming here,” Harrier hurriedly explains. “The Lady Stark has taken to the birthing chamber, and I’m afraid she heard your lady mother’s cries.”

He and Robb share a look, understanding all too well the fright their little sister is going through. Two years have passed, but the memory of standing outside Lady Catelyn’s chamber as they waited for Sansa to come into the world remains clear in their mind. Even though they were told later on that Sansa’s birth went smoothly and without difficulty, the cries they heard through the door was enough to bring Robb to tears and Jon to cling to their father’s hand even tighter.

Robb seemed to forget all about it once he was let inside to see his sister, coming out of the chamber moments later with the biggest smile on his face. Jon, on the other hand, was left with the memory of Lady Catelyn’s screaming for three days more until he was finally allowed to see Sansa for the first time when Lord Stark had brought her to him.

Robb reaches out to take their sister from Harriet and carries her to his bed.

“You can go now, Harriet,” Robb says. “We’ll look after her.”

“As you wish, mi’lord,” Harriet says before leaving the room.

Robb motions for him to join them in his bed, and he does so immediately. He pulls the covers and settles beside Sansa who is now tucked between her two brothers. He’s reminded of the many times the three of them huddled together a year ago whenever they couldn’t sleep after hearing one of Old Nan’s scarier stories.

“Is Mama going to die?” she cries.

“No, little sister, she won’t,” Robb soothes. “Giving birth to the babe just hurts Mother a little is all.”

She abruptly stops crying and gives him an incredulous look. “That was not _a little,_ Robb,” she says seriously. “Did I hurt Mama like that when she gave birth to me?”

Robb pats her on the head. “No, Sansa. Mother often said giving birth to you was easy, easier than me at least.”

Jon is caught off guard when she turns to him next. “How about you? Were you easy too? Like me?”

He stares at her speechless. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Robb looking at him as well with a mixture of alarm and sympathy on his face. Typically, whenever someone, Theon mostly or Lady Catelyn, brought up his birth, he would either scowl (Theon) or remain impassive (Lady Catelyn), but he would always end up brooding in a corner somewhere afterward.

With Sansa, he knows he can do neither. She’s too young and innocent to know, and gods how he never wants that to change. But with the way she practically worships her lady mother, he knows it’s only a matter of time before she finds out he is actually a bastard.

“I don’t know, Sansa. I never really asked,” he says eventually.

A thoughtful expression washes over her face. “I bet you were,” she says, her tear-filled eyes showing confidence in her declaration.

“I bet so too,” Robb adds, looking at him with a smile tinged with sadness.

Not for the first time, Jon feels as though the love he feels for both of them is too great to be able to fit inside his chest. It’s moments like this that makes him blatantly disregard the longing he’s always felt for his own mother. He can make do without a mother’s love, he reckons, if he has Robb, Sansa and maybe even this next babe to call his family.

Before he can respond, Sansa curls up into Robb whose arm is wrapped around her shoulder. “If… if the babe is a girl, will I be your favorite sister?” she asks them timidly.

Immediately, they both answer with a resolute, “Yes.”

And then with a smirk, Robb says, “So who is _your_ favorite brother now, little sister?”

Sansa teases them with a devious smile and her mischievous red-rimmed eyes as she taps her index finger to her chin, contemplating on the monumental decision at hand. He and Robb pretend to wait with bated breath – both now masters at their role in this little game of hers.

Soon enough, she twirls the same index finger in the air. “My favorite is… Robb!” she exclaims, pointing to her left where Robb only half feigns utter joy at being the winner. He, on the other hand, holds a hand over his heart, also half pretending to be saddened at not being chosen. Eventually, the three of them laugh – Sansa enjoying the undivided attention of her brothers, Robb and Jon delighting in making their sister feel better.

It isn’t long before they all drift off to sleep, the idea of having a new sibling even as they speak forgotten at least for the time being. The last thing Jon feels before he falls asleep is Sansa’s soft little fingers intertwining with his. He sleeps with a smile.

* * *

 Hours later, Jon wakes to the sound of their lord father gently stirring Robb and Sansa awake.

“Wake now, children,” Ned says in a low voice. “It’s time to meet your new sister.”

 _A new sister,_ Jon thinks excitedly. He’s already imagining the many things the four of them can do together when, for a moment, he wonders why his father is speaking so softly. Surely news as good as this deserves to be announced to the whole North. But when Ned notices he’s awoken and a look of sadness and guilt washes over his father’s face, Jon remembers, and he’s suddenly reminded with a pang what his standing in this family is. He closes his eyes again, pretending to be asleep, not for his father, but for Robb and Sansa.

As if on cue, he hears Sansa sleepily ask, “What about Jon, Papa?”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and Jon chooses that moment to give in to his urge and open his eyes. He can see his father, with an unknowing Sansa in his arms, and Robb sharing the same look of discomfort.

“Jon will see her on the morrow, sweetling,” Ned answers hesitantly.

Sansa yawns before nodding her head.

His father turns around then. “Now come on, it won’t do to keep little Arya waiting.”

“Arya? Is that her name? What does she look like?” his sister excitedly asks, now completely awake at the mention of her new sister’s name.

Jon strains to hear his father’s answer, but they’re already too far away from him. So he waits until the door to the room clicks shut before closing his eyes. _Arya._ Jon spends the rest of the night wondering how long it will be before he too can see his new sister.

* * *

“Jon! Have you seen her? Have you seen her?” Sansa squeals excitedly as she comes rushing down the hall toward him, her maid trying to keep up with her as usual.

“Not yet. Perhaps later,” Jon answers just as Sansa wraps her arms around his middle, the feel of it making him feel a bit lighter.

She holds his hand and begins to pull him forward. “You must come see!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says immediately, thinking of a possible reason aside from the truth, that her lady mother would find his presence unacceptable. “Lady Catelyn might not be up for visitors yet.”

“Yes, she is. Harriet says she called for me. So you can come too!” She pulls on his hand again.

“Sansa –“ He begins before Harriet cuts in.

“Mi’lady, your mother only asked for you,” she says with a hardened gaze trained on him. “Not _him_.”

Harriet used to tolerate him enough, even sometimes allowing her little lady to climb up his bed back when their rooms were still beside each other. That all changed the night Lady Catelyn visited Sansa’s room and found the maid asleep next to an empty bed with her charge sleeping next to her bastard brother. Since then, Harriet only had cold stares and clipped remarks for him.

Jon couldn’t care less about her opinions of him truth be told. His only worry is that now his little sister is surrounded by one more person who can easily sway her to hate him as well. It seems though that she hasn’t gotten to Sansa yet.

His sister looks at her maid with knitted brows. “But Jon and I can go together. Surely Mama won’t mind,” she tells her although there is now a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“Mi’lady, your mother says only you and Robb can visit the babe,” Harriet huffs. “She made no mention of Lord Jon.”

 _At least she didn’t call me bastard,_ he thinks. Jon watches Sansa as realization dawns on her like he knows it would.

“I see,” she murmurs, tucking her chin to her chest.

Paying no heed to Harriet, he puts his hands on her shoulders. “It’s alright, Sansa. I’ll see little Arya soon enough.”

Sansa looks at him with sad eyes before reaching up on the tip of her toes to give him a hug. With his face buried in her auburn locks, Jon hears her softly tell him, “She looks like you, Jon. Arya looks like you.”

He pulls away from her a little to look into her sapphire eyes. “Oh?” he says simply, unsure of how to respond even though he can already sense what feels like hope blossoming inside his chest.

Sansa nods so enthusiastically that it’s a surprise she doesn’t feel dizzy afterward. “Yes! She has black hair like you, and her eyes are like yours too. Papa says so.”

“That’s…” he pauses, finding no words to describe what he’s feeling.

Sansa’s smiling now, clearly seeing that her words have affected him. “I’ll tell Papa to bring her to you.”

“You don’t have –“

Harriet cuts in. “Mi’lady, we really must be going. Your mo-“

“Oh alright already!” Sansa snaps, her voice dripping with annoyance. Turning to him, her expression gentles. “I will tell Papa, Jon. You’ll see her soon.”

He simply nods in response as Harriet takes his dear Sansa’s hand and leads her away from him, all the while thinking to himself how he can feel so loved and unwanted at the same time. But as he watches Sansa’s retreating form and how she turns to give him one last smile, he can’t help but think it all worth it.


	5. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I like to think that Jon is one of the reasons why Sansa and Arya never got along and why Sansa and Robb had the tight relationship I've always imagined they did.

It’s been two moons since her baby sister’s birth, and Sansa likes to think that nothing much has changed.

She’s still the only one that can coax a smile out of Ser Rodrik. Ser Jory still happily carries her on his shoulders every time she asks, politely of course and always with her prettiest smile. Jeyne and Beth definitely prefer to spend time with her than her sister who prefers sticking their dolls in her mouth more than anything else. Old Nan still comes to her every night with a new story of gallant knights and beautiful maidens. Harriet still follows her around everywhere she goes, though Sansa thinks that’s something she wouldn’t mind changing. Her dear father continues to kiss her on the cheek whenever she runs to him. Her mother still brushes her hair every night. Robb and Jon, true to their word, never forget to give her a share of their lemon cakes and just about anything else she asks them for.

There are little things though, small things here and there that seem to grow with each passing day.

“Can you say ‘Sansa’?” she asks, looking down at the tiny creature in the bassinet. “San-sa.”

In response, the babe just stares at her unblinkingly as if she hasn’t spoken at all.

She hears a chuckle behind her and turns around to find Jon walking toward her with a smile on his face. “I’m afraid it’ll be awhile before she understands you, Sansa. Let alone talk to you.”

Sansa sighs. Her sister isn’t so interesting after all, she’s discovered shortly after the birth. Robb and Jon were wrong when they said she’d have a new playmate in the form of her sister. _Arya’s still too small to play with you,_ her mother had said when she’d asked if she could bring Arya out to the gardens to play. Or, _she can’t talk yet, dearest. I’m afraid it’ll be awhile before she understands you._ They were also wrong when they said she could take care of her like one of her dolls. _You can’t carry her by yourself, sweetling,_ she was told when she once stood on her tippy toes and tried to take her out of her crib.

There’s nothing she can do with little Arya but look at her, and it isn’t as fun as she first thought it would be. But Jon doesn’t seem to think so. She looks on as Jon stands at the other side of the cradle and leans forward to lay a hand on Arya’s head. He doesn’t say anything; he just gently strokes her head, plays with her hair a little and stares. She doesn’t understand how Jon can simply stare at Arya for the longest of time without feeling bored, but stare he does.

She often finds him here in the nursery which used to be her room before the boys moved out and she moved in to theirs. Before Arya, Jon would never visit her in her chambers by himself. He’d always have Robb with him which truthfully made it all the better because it had always been more fun when it was the three of them. But now, whenever Robb prefers Theon’s company over their little sister’s, Jon continues to visit the babe anyway which she finds quite odd. Why does he rather spend his time here with the babe than out in the yard playing with the rest of the boys?

With a frown, she thinks that maybe Theon’s being mean to him again. He always gets that way, especially when Jon performs better in training than he does. And she knows his taunts and teasing are worse when Robb’s with their father or Maester Luwin and it’s just them and the other boys.

Just a week ago, she heard them calling Jon that word again – _bastard,_ and she ran to Ser Jory and told him everything. After recounting everything, she and Harriet trailed after Ser Jory as he stomped his way to the yard and put a stop to it all. She’d never seen Ser Jory that mad or Theon that scared before.

 _"Ser Jory, what’s a bastard?”_ she had asked him later on as he escorted her back to the keep.

A look of distress mixed with sorrow had fallen over his face. _“Nothing a precious little lady like you should concern herself with, Princess Sansa,”_ he’d eventually said with a sad smile. _“Now come along, almost time for supper.”_

And that was the end of that. She still refuses to talk to Theon though, still shoots daggers at all those other boys. Looking at Jon now, she thinks that maybe, like her, he hasn’t forgiven them yet, and she can hardly fault him for that. She just finds it sad that Jon, who loves to run around and play as much as she does, has to settle for little Arya’s humdrum company. Resolving to help and also realizing just how much she hasn’t spent time with him since Arya was born, Sansa walks over to Jon and tugs at his sleeve.

“Yes, Sansa?”

“I want to play knights and maidens,” she announces, and already she’s feeling giddy with excitement. It is her favorite game after all.

“Don’t you want to spend more time with your little sister?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve already spent the morning with her. I want to play with you now.”

He smiles which makes her smile as well. “How about we play with her instead? The three of us,” he says, casting a dubious glance at Harriet who sits in the corner of the room.

Sansa’s brows furrow in confusion. “But she’s too young still, Mama said.”

“ _Mother_ ,” her handmaiden pipes up, looking up at her.

Sansa turns to Harriet.

“Septa Mordane said you must start addressing your mother as a proper highborn lady should,” Harriet reminds her.

Rolling her eyes, Sansa faces her brother again. “ _Mother_ said she’s still too small to play with.”

Jon chuckles. “Well, we can make funny faces to try and make her laugh. What do you think?”

“I don’t think I can make funny faces anymore,” she says in a low voice.

“Why ever not?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she says, “Because ladies aren’t supposed to make funny faces.”

Jon’s smile falters. He looks at her with something akin to pity which confuses her. Why would he be sad about her being a lady? It’s what she is, isn’t it? She’s a lady, and soon she’ll meet her prince, and they shall live a long and prosperous life in their own castle. Mother and Septa Mordane say so, so it can only be true. But why would her brother feel bad about that?

Her thoughts are interrupted when little Arya starts making a small noise. Sansa can’t help but once again roll her eyes in mild irritation. Her little sister’s done nothing but nap and cry the whole morning, and she’s grown to be quite tiresome of it. She wants to play now, and she wants to do so with her brother. He’s returned to staring at Arya though so she tugs at his sleeve again.

“Jon, play knights and maidens with me,” she tells him.

He looks back at Arya whose eyes are now wide open and completely transfixed on him. Sansa sees him smile down at their sister. He’s as fascinated with their newest sibling as she is fascinated with lemon cakes and winter roses, and she feels a pinch in her chest when she realizes it.

“I think I’d like to spend more time with Arya,” he says, his voice as soft and smooth as ever. “Robb is in our chamber, and Theon is in the training yard, I think. I’m sure they’ll be happy to play knights and maidens with you.”

“But I want to play with you.” She tries very hard not to whine, but she doesn’t quite succeed in doing so.

He looks to Arya once more. She can tell he’s trying to decide what to do, and it takes all her willpower to keep her foot from tapping the floor. The excitement she felt just moments ago is now replaced with a budding impatience.

The look on his face when he turns to her makes her heart drop. She knows that look. It’s the same look he makes when he doesn’t have any lemon cakes left for her. It’s the same expression he wears when he gently pulls his hand away from hers whenever their lady mother sees them.

“I’ll play with you later, Sansa. I promise. Okay?”

She plasters a smile on her face and merely nods, not trusting her voice to crack if she does speak. Wordlessly, she turns around and makes her way out of the room, thoughts swirling in her head.

Jon’s never refused to play with her before, even when it’s with her dolls. That’s always been Robb. Sometimes, Jon would even try and talk their brother into playing with them, and he’d succeed on some occasions too. There were times when he couldn’t play with her, but that was only because he had to attend to his lessons and training. He’s never denied her for someone else’s company. Not until today.

It’s only after she’s left the room that she takes a deep breath. She wants to cry. She knows if she does, Jon will surely change his mind. But she remembers Septa Mordane telling her that a lady should always be well-mannered and courteous, that a lady mustn’t resort to tears when she doesn’t get what she wants. Still, her lessons don’t stop her eyes from watering and her lips from trembling.

And that’s how Robb sees his sister when he opens his door to her.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?” He’s immediately on his knees, his hands holding her shoulders.

“Do you want to play with me? I asked Jon, but he wants to be with Arya instead,” she mumbles softly before looking at the ground. “He doesn’t want to play with me anymore.”

“That’s not true, Sansa,” he says, tilting her chin up so that he can look at her eyes. “You know how much Jon loves playing with you.”

“But he doesn’t anymore,” she insists. “He’s always with Arya, and I don’t understand why. She’s not fun to play with. All she does is sleep and cry.”

“Aye. She shits too, and that’s even worse.” Robb laughs out loud before realizing what he just said, and schools his face back into its serious expression. “He’s just taken with her is all… just like I was with you when you were born.”

“Even when all I did was sleep and cry?”

He nods. “Aye, even then.”

She stares at him curiously before asking, “Robb, what does shit mean? Did I shit too?”

A huge, sly grin stretches across his face. “I will not tell you what it means, but yes. Quite a lot actually. But you can’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret,” he whispers to her.

Her eyes widen in the thrill of knowing something no one else does, and she nods eagerly. “I promise I won’t tell.”

Before she realizes it, Robb has her in his arms, and he’s spinning her in the air. She laughs and laughs until her stomach hurts, and he gently places her back down on the ground. “Shall we go and play knights and maidens now, Princess Sansa?”

She squeals in delight as she hugs her brother. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Her arms still wrapped around his neck, Robb stands up and carries her as they make their way to the gardens. “Off we go then!”

Sansa turns her head and kisses her brother on the cheek. It’s a kiss meant as a promise as much as it is a declaration laced with finality. “You’re my favorite brother, Robb.”

Robb laughs before he kisses her in return. “Good, because you’re my favorite too, Sansa. Always.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Robb indulges her favorite sister her favorite game, even after Theon tires of it and leaves. In one instance, Sansa uses her beautiful blue eyes of hers to convince Ser Jory to play with them, and he orders some of the other guards to join in as well. She spends hours laughing and running, basking on the attention she hasn’t received in a while. It’s the most enjoyable afternoon she’s had since her little sister was born.

It’s only while she and Robb are making their way back to the keep that she realizes that Jon never showed up like he promised.


	6. The Lady and the Snow

Sporting an uncommon grin, Jon crosses the yard. He’s on his way to Arya’s room, something he normally wouldn’t do on his own but would always brave doing when Lady Stark is elsewhere. He’s making his way to the keep, when he hears Robb’s voice behind him.

“Jon! Theon and I are going riding in the Wolfswood. Do you want to come?”

“Perhaps next time,” he says. He turns around to continue on walking when Robb stops him again.

“Off to see Arya again, are you?”

He faces his brother and sees his lips curled up in a smirk, and he suddenly feels a bit defensive. Shrugging his shoulders, he replies, “What’s it to you?”

Robb laughs as he claps him on the shoulder. “Nothing at all, brother. I’m just curious. It’s not as if you can play swords with her. She’s much too young to even understand what you’re saying.”

“And your point is?”

“I just want to know why you like to be around her so much, why you often prefer her company over ours.”

Jon studies his brother’s face, trying to determine if there’s any hint of ridicule in his expression like Theon’s always has, but all he sees is genuine curiosity. He’s reminded then that this is Robb he’s speaking to, the brother who’s been nothing but kind and noble, the brother who chooses to follow their father’s example and not his mother’s.

“She looks like me, Robb,” he murmurs before meeting his gaze. “Arya looks like me.”

Robb nods his head in understanding. “Aye, she does.”

“She looks like she can be my sister… my true sister,” he says softly, clearly embarrassed to give voice to his own thoughts.

Robb takes him by the shoulders then and looks at him straight in the eyes. “That’s because she is. You’re our brother, Jon. Mine, Sansa’s and Arya’s.”

The overwhelming gratitude Jon feels toward his brothers can’t possibly be expressed through words, and so he merely nods his head.

His brother flashes him a grin then. “I must tell you though that Sansa’s become quite jealous of little Arya. She says you don’t want to play with her any longer.”

Jon’s eyes widen in shock. “That’s not true!”

“Aye, but you spend all your time with Arya now. To be honest, I feel I should thank you since she comes to me all the time now,” Robb says nonchalantly though he doesn’t miss the smugness he tries to wipe off his face.

A mixture of guilt and worry shoots through him. Yes, he hasn’t been able to play with her since Arya came for a number of reasons, one being that she’s been taking more lessons Septa Mordane while he and Robb have been training with Ser Rodrik and taking their own lessons with Maester Luwin for longer hours. And then during the times when he does catch Sansa without her septa, he finds her with Lady Stark instead.

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s part of the reason why Sansa hasn’t been able to spend time with him. He recalls the last time they were together, almost a moon ago, and he practically winces when he remembers how Sansa asked him to play with her and he chose to stay with Arya a little bit longer, promising to catch up with her later on. He wasn’t able to though because Maester Luwin had called him to his solar for lessons.

When Robb sees Jon’s guilt-stricken face, Robb playfully hits him in the arm. “None of that brooding now, Snow. I’m not saying you’re wrong. Just, you know how Sansa can be. She’s not used to sharing her favorite people with anyone else.”

“I didn’t mean to make her feel that way, Robb.”

Robb rolls his eyes the way Sansa always does whenever he says something they both think so obvious. “I know, Jon. No one’s stupid enough to intentionally hurt Sansa, least of all you” Robb says, and Jon cringes at the thought that his actions had hurt his sister. “Well, perhaps Theon, but then Sansa has always been cross with him,” his brother adds with a laugh.

He huffs. “I certainly can’t blame Sansa for not liking _him_.”

Robb laughs some more. “He can be a bit of an ass. And seeing Sansa put him in his place is always a sight to behold.”

“Where is she now?” Jon asks, already eager to make it up to their sister.

“She’s in the godswood, most likely still convincing Harriet to play dolls with her. Between you and me, I think our sister has a better chance of convincing Ser Jory to play with her than that stuffy handmaiden of hers.” And then his brother smirks. “Maybe you ought to save our little princess from her misery.”

Jon allows a small smile to grace his lips before he nods and makes his way to the godswood.

* * *

“Oh come on, Harriet, it’ll be more fun than you just standing there!” Jon stifles a laugh as he hears his feisty sister arguing with her handmaiden. It seems Robb was right.

“I am your handmaiden, m’lady, not your playmate,” Harriet says evenly, unaffected by her charge’s accusations.

As soon as he nears the pair in the clearing, he sees Sansa stomp her foot down with both her fists clenched. “Then what a lousy handmaiden you are!” she says.

It’s impossible for Jon not to at least chuckle after that, and so he does, catching his sister’s attention.

“Jon!” she yells happily as she runs to him. “Come play with me!”

“I was just thinking the exact same thing, little sister,” he says, completely ignoring the glare Harriet is shooting him. “How about we make that snow castle you’ve always wanted to build?”

The red-haired girl immediately squeals in delight and starts clapping her hands. “Yes, oh yes, Jon!” she says as she grabs his hand and starts pulling him toward the clearing where there is more snow and less trees.

She plops down on the snow-covered ground and starts gathering up the snow while Jon begins using his hands to lay the foundation of their castle.

“Pace yourself, princess,” he says with a laugh as he watches Sansa flail her thin arms about in a determined effort to heap up as much snow as possible. “It’ll take a while before we finish your Winterfell castle.”

She pauses and gives him a contemplative look. “I don’t want to build Winterfell. Let’s build King’s Landing instead,” Sansa tells him excitedly.

Upon hearing that, Jon gives her a confused look. She’s never mentioned King’s Landing before or anything about the south for that matter.

“King’s Landing?” he repeats, hoping he might’ve heard her incorrectly.

Sansa nods fervently. “Mm-hmm. Septa says that’s where all the queens and princesses are. She says I might find my husband there.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Sansa, do you even know what a husband is?” he asks with a teasing smile.

She nods again. “He’s a boy who will take care of me and love me,” she says matter-of-factly. “Like Father, and you and Robb.”

He feels his chest tighten. The protective brother in him screams that the precious little girl in front of him should never be allowed to be touched by a man, let alone have a husband. But then the bastard part of him whispers that he has no right to such thoughts. He looks at the girl in front of him whose eyes almost sparkle. _Don’t grow up, dear sister, please stay as you are,_ he wants to tell her.

“You can find a husband here in the North,” he says instead.

She shakes her head. “But I want to be a princess. Septa says I can be a princess if I become a proper lady and if I marry a prince, and there are no princes in the North.”

“You’re already Winterfell’s little princess, Sansa,” he tells her with a warm smile.

She purses her lips and goes back to gathering the snow. “No I’m not,” he hears her mutter. “Arya’s the little princess now.”

His throat constricts with apprehension. He doesn’t want to ask her, but he will because it’s why he’s sought her out in the first place. “Now why would you say that?”

She merely shrugs in response as she absentmindedly plays with the snow in her hands.

He lays a hand on her arm, stilling her movements, and waits for her to face him. When she does, he sighs. “Is it because I’ve spent a lot of time with Arya?”

She doesn’t answer his question. Instead, she goes back to her little pile of snow and says, “I don’t know why you like to play with her. She doesn’t do anything but cry.”

He chuckles. “Aye, she does cry. Loudly too. She’s got strong lungs, that one.”

Sansa shoots him a fixed stare. “I have strong lungs too,” she says, her chin raised.

Jon smiles at her and uses his thumb and index finger to shake her chin. “I know that better than anyone, little sister,” he tells her. And he does. The whole keep would know whenever the children were playing tag thanks to Sansa’s squeals and shrieks. But since Arya’s birth, the sound of the Stark children playing has lessened considerably. The thought saddens him.

She glances over at Harriet whose attention is elsewhere. “Robb says she shits too,” she adds quietly, chin raised and back straight like she understands exactly what she’s saying.

It makes Jon laugh out loud, and the idea that she’s made him laugh causes her to beam at him.

“Of course he’d use that word,” he says when he’s calmed down. “Did he tell you what it means?”

She frowns a little. “No, he didn’t want to tell me.” And then he sees her eyes widen before she claps a hand over her mouth. “And he told me not to tell anyone!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” he tries to reassure her.

“But it’s supposed to be _our_ secret,” she argues and then pauses. Her shoulders slump, and she bows her head. “You and Arya have your own moment together. This was supposed to be just mine and Robb’s, and I ruined it.”

He’s silent for a moment as the realization sinks in, that there now seems to be an invisible line with Sansa and Robb on one end and he and Arya on the other and that he’s somehow caused it. “Sansa, I’m sorry I haven’t been spending much time with you.”

She looks up at him. “Is it because Arya looks like you and I don’t?”

He stiffens. _Yes,_ he almost tells her. As much as he loves the sister sitting in front of him, nothing could ever compare to the joy he felt as soon as his eyes laid on the dark-haired, grey-eyed babe presently sleeping in the nursery. After years of being singled out as the noble Lord Stark’s moment of dishonor, after years of being constantly reminded of his bastard status by the obvious physical resemblance of Robb and Sansa no matter that they look more Tully than Stark, he finally has someone who makes him feel like he actually belongs in his father’s family. There’s nothing Winterfell’s bastard could want more than that.

And he hates himself for it because Sansa has done nothing but love him the way a Stark would love a trueborn brother – fiercely and wholeheartedly. He thinks about lying, about telling her that the only reason he hasn’t given her as much of his time as he used to is because of Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrik. But then he looks into her sapphire eyes, innocent and honest, and he knows there’s really no choice for him but to tell the truth.

Jon opens his mouth to say it, but he’s cut off by Ser Jory’s approaching footsteps.

“There’s the princess!” he says with a warm smile. “Sorry to disturb you, but your Mother has called for you. It’s time for your lessons with your Septa.”

He pushes down the groan that threatens to spill from his lips. “Didn’t you have your lessons earlier?” he asks her instead.

Sansa sighs. “Yes. But it’ll be my third nameday soon, and Septa says I have to start acting like a proper lady now that I’m an older sister,” she explains evenly as she gets to her feet, Jon following her lead.

“Alright. Maybe we can continue with our snow castle after your lessons,” he says tentatively, unsure if she will still want to play with him later on, especially after the conversation they were just having.

She gives him a bright smile. “Oh I would like that!”

He bends, both hands on his knees, to match her eye level. “I’ll come and get you when you’re done, alright?”

She nods enthusiastically before she takes the hand Ser Jory offers her and lets him lead her away, Harriet following behind. Before she disappears in the trees, she turns around and waves at him. The corners of his lips turn upward as he waves back. They’re still okay, he thinks with great relief. He walks in the opposite direction, all the while swearing that he will not disappoint her anymore. He’ll make her the most beautiful snow castle he can ever make even if it is King’s Landing.

* * *

In the end, he isn’t able to give her the snow castle she so desperately wants. When he gets to the room where Sansa takes her lessons, he finds it empty save for one of the servants who tells him that his sister has gone to her mother’s chambers to watch her do needlework.

And then later during supper, he notices that Sansa tries not to look at him. And in the couple of times that she does, she looks at Lady Catelyn right after to see if her mother’s watching.


	7. That's a pretty name

As she walks toward her chamber with both her hands clasping a book to her chest, her chin held high and her back straight like a proper lady should, Sansa can hear laughter coming from the room at the far end of the hall – her brothers’ room. _Well no_ , she catches herself, _that’s not exactly right_.

It’s been almost a year since she had that talk with her lady mother, but she can still remember it clearly. It was after one of her lessons with Septa Mordane when her mother showed up.

“Dearest, why don’t you spend the afternoon with me?” Lady Catelyn had asked. “I can teach you how to do needlework.”

Sansa hadn’t spent time alone with her mother since little Arya’s birth, and so her eyes lit up at the prospect of it. She’d eagerly voiced out her assent and followed Lady Catelyn to her solar. It had been after an hour or two passed that Sansa suddenly covered her mouth as she let out a gasp, realizing what she’d completely forgotten.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?” her mother had asked, ever observant to her children.

She’d known it wouldn’t do well for her to say, but she was never good at lying, especially when it’s to her family. So after biting her lip in nervousness, she’d answered in a soft voice, “I forgot I was supposed to play with Jon after my lessons.”

Her mother’s face had sobered some at her words, and then she’d gone back to her needlework. “Were you now?” Lady Catelyn had asked, not looking at her.

Sansa had merely nodded even though she knew her mother wouldn’t be able to see. And when her mother continued to work on her work, Sansa had stood up, taking her mother’s silence as permission.

“I shall see you in supper, Mother,” she’d said after curtsying.

She’d already been inches away from the door when her mother’s voice cut through the silence. “So you would rather spend your time with the bastard than your own mother?” Though her tone was even and composed, Sansa hadn’t missed the hint of anger in it. It wasn’t as much that, however, that had caused Sansa much shock as it was hearing the word she’d often heard Theon and the stable boys say whenever they wanted to insult her brother.

Sansa had turned to face her mother then. “Why do you call him that?” she’d asked in a shaky voice.

 _Her brother and the bastard’s room,_ she corrects herself as soon as she’s close enough to see Robb, Jon and, to her surprise, Arya through the open doorway.

Robb is the first to see her. “Sansa! Come play with us,” he says excitedly. “We’re building a fort for little Arya here to destroy.”

She stands there silently, not really knowing what to say, her sapphire eyes instinctively landing on Jon’s grey ones. She feels like she needs his permission even though both her Septa and lady mother have told her that a highborn lady is leagues more superior to a bastard. But this isn’t politics or anything of the like. This is playtime, and as any playtime in lowborn or highborn households, no one wants to join when they are not truly wanted.

The last time she played with him was the day her mother told her the ugly truth about Jon. Since then, her time has been spent with endless hours of lessons with her Septa in the morning and needlework with her lady mother in the afternoon. She loves both activities dearly, especially when she knows that being excellent at both means she is bound to become an excellent princess.

And while she hasn’t been hostile to Jon – because how can she ever be when he’s always been so kind to her? – she hasn’t exactly reached out to him like she usually would. And, to her relief as well as dismay, he hasn’t reached out to her either. It’s like he knows the words her mother told her that day, and he has just resigned himself to it. They have exchanged only a few words and countless other stolen glances between each other that neither of them can really understand.

But Sansa clearly understands the smile Jon gives her now, and she finds herself releasing a breath of relief.

“You can sit next to me,” Jon says, patting the space beside him.

She looks at him now, and there is no mistaking it anymore. She misses him. She’s been acting like a proper lady since she turned three eight moons ago – the best, her father had said – but sometimes she just misses playing with her siblings. And Jon. She misses Jon.

But then she can hear her Septa’s voice in her head, telling her that she must always be a lady, and a lady never associates herself with bastards. Sansa looks to where all the toys are gathered in the floor, and she knows that theirs is a game a lady would never play with.

Sansa bites her lip in frustration as tears threaten to form in her eyes. She desperately wants to play, but the last thing she wants is to disappoint her lady mother and get a scolding from Septa Mordane.

Sensing the distress of a most beloved sister, Robb immediately stands up. “Sansa, what is the matter?”

“I… don’t want to play.” She tries and fails to make her voice sound firm.

Her brother frowns. “Why not?”

She gives an exasperated sigh. “Because that’s not a game for ladies, Robb.”

She sees Robb roll his eyes, and her temper flares up. But before she can snap at him, Jon clears his throat.

“How about knights and maidens?” he asks gently. “That’s a game for a proper lady like yourself.”

Sansa turns to him then, and there is no stopping the bright smile she flashes him as she eagerly nods her head.

 

* * *

 

“Please tell me your name, my lady,” he calls to her.

“I’m Lady Sansa Stark,” she replies sweetly as she reaches out her hand for him to take. For a split second, panic grips her as she realizes that her mother would be cross with her if she sees her letting _the bastard_ hold her hand. _But he’s a knight now, not a bastard,_ she counters.

Jon takes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

At that, Sansa scrunches her nose. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” she complains. She puts both hands on her hips and gives her half-brother what she feels is the most important lecture he will ever receive from her. “Jon, when a lady tells you her name, you’re supposed to compliment it. It’ll surely make the ladies feel at ease with you.”

He gives her a curious look before nodding. “Okay, I shall keep that in mind.”

“Let’s try it again,” she says excitedly, shuffling backwards. “I’m Lady Sansa Stark.”

He takes her hand in his once more. “Lady Sansa,” he repeats before he smiles that lopsided grin of his. “That’s a pretty name.”

Sansa practically beams. “Why, thank you, my dear knight,” she replies, a blush warming her cheeks. Breaking character, she leans closer to him and whispers, “Well done, Jon!”

It’s only for a brief moment that she and Jon lock eyes on each other, but to Sansa it feels longer. The warmth in Jon’s eyes brings her back to the times they’ve spent together before Arya was born, when Robb would play with Theon and it would be just the two of them. Jon has always had the kindest eyes for her.

“Sansa!” a sharp voice slices through the air.

She whips her head to the side and is immediately seized by shame when she sees her mother standing there with her arms crossed over her chest. She yanks her hand back to her as she takes a step away from the bastard.

“I think it’s time to practice on your needlework,” Lady Catelyn says. Her tone is amicable, but the glare she shoots in Jon’s direction betrays her.

“Can’t she do it later, Mother?” Robb asks, coming closer. “We’re in the middle of a game.”

“No, Robb, she can’t. A lady doesn’t shirk her responsibilities,” their mother replies.

“But she’s still a girl, Mother. She’s not a lady _yet_. Let her play some more.”

“Yes, I am!” she yells suddenly, angry that her brother would call her a girl when all she’s done these past months has been to prove to the very woman standing before them what a proper lady she can be. She looks to her mother and the disappointment she sees on her face is just too much for her. And so in her panic, she says the first thing she can think of that might appease her. “And the only reason why I agreed to play with you is because the bastard wanted me to!”

As soon as she realizes what she just said, she claps both hands over her mouth. But her pathetic attempt to take it all back fails. It is too late.

“Sansa!” Robb hisses sharply.

But she cares not for her brother at the moment, nor for the saddened expression Ser Jory wears as he stands off to the side. She turns and looks at Jon. The face he wears is one of complete shock and hurt, his eyes stunned wide and his lips parted slightly. _Oh_ , they seem to say.

It is utter shame that creeps up into her. To be the cause of Jon's sadness wounds her more than her small frame can possibly bear, and she feels the urge to weep.  _I didn't mean to,_ she wants to wail.  _I take it back, Jon, I take it back!_

“Come, my darling.” She suddenly hears her mother’s voice and turns to face her. Where displeasure was earlier painted on her face, now Lady Catelyn gifts her with her most beautiful smile as she reaches a hand for her to take. “We can go to the kitchens and see if they still have some lemon cakes left.”

For the first time in her life, Sansa’s mouth doesn’t water at the prospect of lemon cakes. On the contrary, she’s sure that if she eats one now, it’ll taste like ash. But oh does she want to keep her lady mother happy with her. And that is what makes her nod her head slowly.

Before she takes a step, however, she turns to the boy behind her once more.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she whispers in a quivering voice before hurrying off to her mother.

She doesn’t hear how he whispers back, “It’s okay, Sansa.” Nor does she know that it’s the last time she will ever apologize to Jon for anything.


	8. The Bastard and the Horseface

At nine, Sansa is the epitome of the perfect lady, even surpassing the women from all the other great houses in the North, perhaps in the South as well. Whenever the Stark bannermen visit Winterfell to meet with the Warden of the North, she never fails to stand out with her perfect manners and courtesy. Add to that her Tully blue eyes and flowing, auburn hair and she’s got everyone positively in awe of her.

Everyone except for one, that is.

“You look stupid,” her younger sister bluntly tells her.

Sansa has just finished styling her hair in the Southern fashion, intricately braiding her hair on the top while leaving curled tendrils at the bottom. Jeyne had assured her that this is the latest trend in King’s Landing, and so she hurriedly went up to her chambers and tried it out. Everyone she’s come across has complimented her on it, making the smile on her face grow wider and wider.

Now, hearing her sister’s remark, the smile disappears in an instant as she turns around and glares at the smaller girl.

“Nobody asked _you_ ,” she bites back, aware that there are people around them staring.

“It doesn’t matter. You still look stupid,” Arya shoots back, arms crossed over her chest.

She huffs in response, cheeks turning red of embarrassment. Why does she always have to humiliate her in front of other people? Just the past week, she had been walking across the year with Jeyne and Beth trailing behind her when Arya threw mud in their direction and ran away laughing hysterically. The mud splattered all over her dress. While the older children had known enough to keep themselves from laughing, the smaller tots had been oblivious to propriety and doubled up in laughter. If it weren’t for Robb, who’d seen everything and swiftly carried her back to the keep, she would’ve disgraced herself further by crying in front of them all.

Thinking of that incident, she curled her fists to her side in anger. Before she could think of a retort, Arya looks over her shoulder and her eyes immediately light up.

“Jon! Come here!” she says excitedly, waving her favorite sibling forward.

She looks behind her to see Jon hesitantly approach them. He stops a few steps away from her.

“What is it, Arya?” he asks in an anxious voice. This isn’t the first time Arya has invited him to join in her lifelong mission to ridicule her, but thankfully he has yet to actually participate.

“Don’t you think Sansa looks stupid with that silly hairstyle of hers?”

Sansa is positive she can see her sister’s eyes gleaming in utter delight, waiting for her to break down in tears or to show some sort of reaction. The last thing she wants is to give her that satisfaction, but she can’t help but turn to Jon with an almost pleading look in her eyes.

 _Do I really?_ They seem to say.

She notices his whole demeanor stiffen, his face turning white, and he is speechless. It seems he really doesn’t do well being in the center of attention. The silence stretches on to the point where Sansa doesn’t think he will respond which in truth stings just as much if he does answer in the affirmative. Even Arya seems to think so since she hears her huff in disappointment. But then he snaps out of his trance and lets out a deep breath.

“No, Arya, I don’t,” he answers finally and evenly. And then he turns to her and adds almost shyly, “Truly.”

Impulsively, she whirls around to throw Arya the most victorious smile she’s ever given. She’s tempted to stick her tongue out, but ladies would never dare do such a thing no matter how tempting. It’s the first time Jon has ever sided with her over their younger sister, even if it wasn’t his intention or that he’s probably unaware that he’s siding with her in the first place. To Sansa, it’s the best she is ever going to get from him. Before she can make a comment to go with her smirk, Arya glowers at them both before storming off to the godswood. As she runs further away from them, the distinct sound of sniveling makes its way to her ears. And Jon’s too, she reckons. She hasn’t even turned around to look at him questioningly before Jon runs after their sister, calling her name.

Letting out a huff, she starts walking in the opposite direction, determined to bask in her triumph over Arya for once. _Let her be the one to shed a few tears for a change,_ she thinks to herself, _gods know how many times she’d done worse to me_. She’s just entered the main keep when the guilt begins to stir in her chest yet she refuses to pay any attention to it.

“Robb!” she calls out to her brother when she sees him just around the corner.

He turns, waves and then makes his way toward her. As soon as he’s near enough to see the latest change in her appearance, he raises his brows in question. “Have you done something with your hair, Sansa?”

“Aye,” she answers proudly. “It’s how ladies fashion their hair in the South. Do you like it?”

She doesn’t miss the pause he makes. For a second she genuinely feels as stupid as Arya said she was and she’s all the angrier at her sister for it. But then her brother gives her a big smile, and then he reaches out and twirls a lock of her hair that is almost the same shade of red as his.

“I think you look lovelier than all the Southron ladies combined, Sansa,” he tells her.

Blushing, she giggles and throws her arms around her brother’s neck. Belatedly, it occurs to her that a proper lady would simply smile and say thank you when paid a compliment, but this is Robb. Her favorite brother is the only person she’s willing to not act like a lady with.

“Oh do you really think so, Robb?” she squeals joyfully as she embraces him. “I worked on it all morning.”

Robb laughs and the sound of it warms her. It’s not like Arya’s or any of their other siblings’. It doesn’t make her feel small or stupid. On the contrary, his laughter makes her feel adored and loved and beautiful.

“Of course! No one who sees you would say otherwise,” he answers as he carefully puts her back to the ground.

She purses her lips at that. “Arya said I look stupid,” she says softly before meeting Robb’s gaze. “You’ll tell me if I look stupid, right?”

Her brother frowns a bit. “You don’t look stupid, Sansa. It’s just different is all,” he reassures her. “You know Arya just says that to poke fun at you.”

“I can’t stand her, Robb. She lives to torment me.”

Robb chuckles. “That’s what younger siblings are for.”

“ _I_ don’t torment you,” she argues, slightly offended by his words. “Ladies don’t torment anyone.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he concedes. “But you weren’t always a little lady, Sansa. Remember that time you got mud all over my bed? And those times you would steal my lemon cakes when I wasn’t looking?”

Her cheeks turn red, a sign of her guilt. “I was very little then. And lemon cakes are my favorite,” she murmurs.

Chuckling again, Robb bends down and puts both hands on her shoulders. “I’m not saying you were wrong, dear sister,” he comforts her. “As you said, you were only very little then. And it’s the same thing with Arya now.”

His words bring back the guilt she’s been feeling since she left the yard only now it feels twice as heavy. “It would be easier if she acts more like a lady,” she mutters more to appease herself than anything else.

“Aye, I’m sure it would. But that’s why you’re her big sister, Sansa. You can show her how to be a proper lady.”

She lets out a tired sigh. “Fine,” she says begrudgingly before turning around to walk back where she came from.

“Where are you headed?”

“To go be a proper lady,” she grumbles and walks away all the while hearing her brother laugh.

 

* * *

 

She’s steps away from the clearing that opens up to the heart tree when she hears them. On any other given day, she would probably just go ahead and march up toward them but Robb’s words have triggered a feeling of shame in her that makes her hesitate. She’s annoyed with herself for feeling this way, from feeling victorious in one moment to abashed in the next, especially since she isn’t the one at fault.

After taking a deep breath to steel herself and to swallow her pride, she takes one step forward, intent on taking the remaining steps that would lead to the heart tree.

“I can’t believe you sided with her, Jon!” she hears Arya cry. “She’s never but mean to me and she ignores you all the time.”

“Arya –“ Jon says.

“It’s because she’s prettier than me, isn’t it? You choose her over me because she’s pretty and I’m ugly,” she accuses him.

“I’m not choosing her over you, Arya,” she hears Jon insist. “And don’t say that. You’re not ugly.”

Arya scoffs, unbelieving. “I don’t care if I’m not pretty like her. She’s an idiot who only fancies stupid things.”

There is silence from Jon’s end, and Sansa finds herself peeking through the branches to take a look. Her sister’s words sting her only a little – she’s said the same as much to her on a daily basis. It’s Jon she wants to glimpse. It’s true, for the past couple of years all she does is ignore him, goes to great lengths to avoid being alone in a room with him. But her reason for doing so hasn’t always been her indifference to the brooding boy.

When she’d impulsively called him a bastard over a game of knights and maidens all those years ago, she couldn’t bear seeing his face in the many days that followed. Seeing him had overwhelmed her with guilt and shame. That Robb was angry with her because of it only made it even worse. She’d been as crass and mean as Theon and all the other stableboys. She’d wanted to apologize, truly she did. But her lady mother had been even more affectionate and attentive to her since the incident, showering her with compliments and taking it upon herself to teach her more about a lady’s courtesies. And then she’d noticed how Jon seemed to only care about her young sister, spending his every free time in the nursery but always leaving the room the moment she comes in. Of course, she’d never let on that it upset her. And then eventually, ignoring him had become a routine for her.

There had been moments, sporadic and unexpected, when she’d stop and watch Arya and Jon playing together, Jon throwing snowballs at her sister and hoisting her up on his shoulders, Arya fearlessly taking Jon by the hand and dragging him everywhere she wished. Always she would do so hidden from their view – by the window in the keep, around the corner of a stable, behind the bushes of the godswood like now. But no matter where she hides herself from their sight, there is no hiding the small but incessant voice in her head saying almost mockingly, _He’s never done that with you_. It had been the constant echo of those words in her head that had driven her to disinterest where Jon is concerned.

But now, she finds herself anticipating his response to what her sister said. She would never admit it lest her lady mother hates her but the fact of the matter is that while she could flick away Arya’s insults with tremendous ease, unflattering words from Jon would be harder to swallow.

“She _is_ quite fond of stupid things,” he concedes though his voice is cautious and somewhat hesitant.

“Like hideous Southron hairstyles,” Arya says. They have their back to her, but Sansa swears the girl is already smiling.

“And those awful dances,” Jon adds, a bit louder than before.

Arya is giggling now. “And her ridiculous dolls.”

Then, together, they pipe up, “And boring needlework!”

It’s only when they are laughing loudly that Sansa takes notice of her whole body shaking. She bites her lip to keep from screaming at them for being so mean and at herself for being so stupid to feel guilt at making her sister cry when she has obviously never had any qualms about doing the same to her.

Jon turns around to kneel in front of Arya, holding her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry if I made it seem like I picked Sansa over you,” he says sincerely. “I’m always on your side, Arya. I promise.”

Sansa looks on. She watches as Jon envelops Arya in a tight hug, and she is sure that she’s never felt this hurt before. Grabbing a hold of her skirts, she turns back and hurries to return to the keep. Momentarily, she completely forgets her courtesies and doesn’t even bother greeting the servants she meets along the way, too focused on telling herself that she will not cry.

But as soon as she closes the door to her own chambers, the tears begin to fall like rain in the scariest of storms.

 

* * *

 

Sansa enters the courtyard with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. After finishing her lessons with Septa Mordane earlier, she could hear the laughter of her brothers and sister coming from the courtyard and figured it would be nice to spend some time with them, especially Rickon.

“Look! It’s her royal highness, Princess Sansa of Looloo Lala Land!” Arya announces.

“Arya,” Robb warns.

She turns to her friends. “Look, it’s Horseface Arya.” Jeyne and Beth giggle, careful not to let on how truly funny they find it because both are crushing on her older brother who now turns to her.

“Sansa,” Robb says disappointedly.

“Quick! Bow to her majesty before she runs crying to Mother again!” the younger Stark girl speaks up again before bowing into the most ridiculous and unladylike curtsy ever, drawing out laughter from Theon, Rickon and Bran.

She could feel the tears slowly forming in her eyes even though she promised herself to never cry over Arya again since that time she caught them in the godswood almost a week ago. She’s about to make a hasty retreat when she catches sight of Jon who is looking at the ground. His lips are quivering as though he’s desperately trying to hold a laugh.

All of a sudden, the shame she feels at being ridiculed is replaced by anger. Why is she, a proper lady and a trueborn Stark, constantly at the receiving end of insults and japes while her half-brother receives nothing but her siblings’ affections?

Without thinking, she turns to him. Chin raised, she says in an icy voice, “Do you think that’s funny, bastard?”

As soon as she says it, everyone stops laughing, shock written on all their faces, humiliation written on Jon’s. Then Theon breaks the silence by barking out laughing, followed by Rickon who hasn’t a clue about what is going on. Bran wears a look of confusion while Arya and Robb scowl at her. But before either of them can say anything, she marches off, Jeyne and Beth snickering behind her.

It’s the last time she calls him a bastard to his face – Robb making her promise not to do so anymore after that. But it’s also the last time she thinks of him as anything but her bastard brother.


	9. The Dancing Fool

He loathes it, abhors it. He is outright repulsed by it.

He says it’s all because he thinks it ridiculous and pointless when, really, it’s mostly because the thought of it alone makes his knees weak and his heart pound a hundred beats per second.

Jon Snow does not dance.

Give him a sword and he turns into one of the cleverest, most nimble warriors in the North. Give him music to dance to and he turns into the clumsiest, most awkward fool in all the Seven Kingdoms.

But he is close to thirteen namedays now, so he and Robb, who is only a few moons younger than him, are expected to learn the common practices of lords. He wants to tell them that he will have no use for it, that he is a bastard with no intenion of becoming a lord, only a brother of the Night’s Watch like his Uncle Benjen. He keeps his mouth shut though because his lord father had been the one to order the lesson much to his surprise.

And so here he is now in one of Winterfell’s smaller halls with Robb at his side and Theon standing next to him. Though both Robb and Theon expressed annoyance when they had all been informed by Maester Luwin to attend dancing lessons, the two are quite jovial now, playfully elbowing each other and exchanging japes. He’s the only one, it seems, who wears a sullen face that is even dourer than usual.

Suddenly, the doors open and in walks Sansa and Septa Mordane with Jeyne and Beth in tow. All three girls are giggling and smiling as they make their way to where he stands with Robb and Theon. The closer they get, the more anxious he becomes. He’s never let himself be in such close proximity to Sansa, not since she’d called him a bastard. Twice.

The first time she said it, he knew it was an accident, the word slipping out of her unintentionally in panic at being caught by Lady Catelyn. It was clear to him that she regretted it as soon as it came out of her mouth. She even apologized for it before skittering off to her lady mother like a dog with its tail between its legs. Regardless, he’d chosen to distance himself from her not long after that. Not because he stopped seeking her company, not because he wanted to avoid being embarrassed like that again, and definitely not because he harboured any ill will toward her. Truly, he did not fault her for it one bit.

No, the reason why he first decided to remain scarce in her presence was so that she wouldn’t have had to choose between the Lady Catelyn and him. It pained him to see Sansa so utterly distressed and torn whenever her dedication to her mother clashed against her docile nature. And so he stayed away. It had been difficult at first; his desire to be a brother to her never diminished. Thankfully Arya’s presence had made it easier for him.

But now, now his reason for steering clear of her has changed. Years of desiring nothing more than to be the perfect daughter and the perfect lady has turned her into a stranger.

The memory of her calling him a bastard that second time stings until now. She’d never been so callous before – indifferent, maybe – but never cruel. She’d never thrown an insult before, most likely because she didn’t know any or she thought ladies would never say such unpleasant words. Even her retorts to Arya’s teasing would fall flat.

If he were being honest, between the two sisters, it’s Arya who could be callous and nasty with her words. Though she would never admit it to anyone, he’s always known that the reason why his favorite sister has always taken to tormenting Sansa is to cover up her own insecurities. It must be hard for her to live in the shadow of her sister, Sansa being marvellous at everything a highborn lady should be.

He knows the feeling all too well. No matter what he does and how great he is at it, he will always be second best to Robb, the heir to Winterfell, the true Stark. Apart from his shared Stark features with Arya, this is also why he’s found himself having a closer bond with his sister. It’s why he indulges the younger Stark girl her japes.

But there are times when even he would think Arya had gone too far with her teasing, especially when she would make fun of Sansa in front of everyone. He, too, knows what it’s like to be humiliated in public like that. And every time she would embarrass Sansa in his presence, he would constantly press his lips into a straight line to keep himself from saying something out loud for he knows how sensitive Arya could be when she feels he’s siding with stupid Sansa, she would say, instead of her.

It’s ironc, he thinks now, that his attempt to stop himself from speaking up in Sansa’s defense is what triggered her most hurtful insult to him.

Do you think that’s funny, bastard? Is what she’d asked him. No, I don’t, he wanted to say as she walked away from them.

As she approaches them now, a most benevolent smile on her face that he knows she reserves for Robb, that she used to reserve for me, he finds himself wanting to say the words again. I would never, Sansa, for I would never wish that smile to leave your face.

“Sister,” Robb greets her with a grin as she stops in front of him.

She curtsies. “Brother,” she says affectionately.

“Sansa,” Theon pipes up beside Robb, his voice smooth and teasing. Jon need not even look at him to know that his trademark smirk is stretch across his face.

She turns to her father’s ward and all the affection is replaced by mild annoyance. “That’s Lady Sansa to you, Greyjoy,” she says crisply.

Robb laughs and so does Theon though his is arguably less enthusiastic. He wants to laugh as well, finding some small comfort in the fact that while he and Sansa have fallen out over the years, her opinion of Theon remains as unfavorable as it ever was. He doubts he could withstand the thought of Sansa shifting the affections she used to shower on him to Theon.

But all thought of laughter dissolves in an instant when Sansa turns to him and her Tully blue eyes meet his. Her lips curve downward in a small pout and right away he is terrified that she will order him to leave, completely forgetting that mere moments ago he wished to be anywhere but her. Robb also stops laughing, and he can tell that his brother is also nervously waiting.

“Jon,” she says softly before the sound of the doors opening behind them draws her attention.

He doesn’t even bother to see who the intruder is (because yes, he would call the person an intruder for interrupting the first amicable conversation he’s had with Sansa in years, though he knows he is too ambitious to call it a conversation). In that moment, all he can think of is that she’s called him Jon.

“Father!” Sansa says excitedly. In a flash, she disappears in front of him and he is left with a glimpse of red hair trailing away.

It turns out the intruder is none other than their lord father.

At the sound of his name on his daughter’s lips, Ned crouches down and opens his arms wide. Sansa, remembering her courtesies, hastily drops to a curtsy before launching herself in his embrace. He watches his father’s eyes crinkle as his lips curve upward. For someone who rarely smiles, he does so effortlessly when it comes to his children, though he’s reminded of the times when he’s caught a hint of sadness too when Ned looks at him.

“Now are you sure you are up for the task, sweetling?” Ned asks as he releases her and stands up.

“Yes, Father. It would be an honor,” she answers.

Robb leaves his side to walk toward the pair. “And what honor would that be?”

Father and daughter turn to him, Ned’s arm on her shoulder and a playful grin on her face. “Why, to teach you to dance, of course,” she says sweetly.

 

* * *

 

 

“Tell me true, Jon, do you have two left feet?” Theon taunts as he dances past him with Jeyne in his arm.

He would utter a retort but Beth Cassel snorts, and both Theon and Jeyne laugh. For the past half hour, he’s done very little except step on her toes, but he can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for her since she’s done nothing but announce it to the whole room whenever he makes a mistake. He’s already half tempted to purposely step on her toes even more just to rile her up.

“Stop,” Septa Mordane suddenly calls. “You can rest first, children, and then you shall switch partners before going again,” the septa says, eliciting a groan from the boys.

“Thank the gods.” He hears Beth mutters.

This time, he doesn’t restrain himself. “My thoughts exactly, Lady Beth.”

Beth’s face flushes red in annoyance, and he can tell she’s about to say something back but Robb suddenly appears behind him, slapping his back, and in an instant Ser Rodrik’s daughter clams up.

“You look like you’re going to be sick, Jon,” his brother says with a laugh.

“Aye, I think I will be with all this fluttering about.”

Robb grips him by the shoulders. “Just relax, brother.”

“I don’t think Jon Snow is capable of relaxing, what with his brooding face and all,” Theon pipes up.

Unknowingly, he clenches both his fists as Jeyne and Beth giggle. He notices though that Sansa doesn’t join in, her face remaining impassive and unreadable. It strikes a peculiar feeling in him, one that is both cautious and hopeful. But before he can dwell on it any longer, Robb’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“So,” his brother begins as he claps his hands together, “Who shall pair up with whom?”

“Well obviously, I can’t dance with Jon anymore,” Beth says rather innocently as she casts Robb a coy look.

“I can’t dance with him either,” argues Jeyne. “He’ll crush all my toes!”

Unsurprisingly, Theon doubles over in laughter. “Looks like Jon Snow will be crushing your toes, Lady Sansa.”

Immediately, his chest swells with dread. He’s already embarrassed himself enough as it is. He doesn’t need to be humiliated even further. Both girls then fall silent, anticipating Sansa’s reaction and belatedly realizing that they should’ve probably let her decide first. Everyone knows they both worship the ground she walks on and that everything she says is truth and nothing less.

“Do not fret,” Theon continues as he walks to stand closer to her. “I’ll pair up with you to save you from the bastard.”

She sharply turns her head to glare at the arrogant boy and shocks everyone in the room when she snaps, “I’d rather dance with my half-brother than you, Theon.” And then she looks at him and, seemingly remembering her courtesies, says, “That is, if Jon is amenable to it.”

Dumbfounded, he looks a fool for the second time when his response is but a nod of his head.

 

* * *

 

“My apologies, Lady Sansa, if I end up stepping on your toes,” he says timidly as they approach each other before they begin dancing once more.

She lets out a huff of annoyance, letting him know his feeble attempt at keeping peace with her is unappreciated. “If you keep thinking you’ll make a mistake, Jon, then you most certainly will,” she scolds him.

He gapes at her disbelievingly, wondering if his ears have deceived him or if Sansa has just given him her own kind of encouragement – it certainly wasn’t scorn. When she narrows her eyes at him, he realizes he’s been staring at her too long and immediately shifts his gaze downward.

“Stop looking at your feet lest you want to faint,” she chides him impatiently after a long stretch of silence.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, hesitant grey eyes meeting her exasperated blue ones. “I’m not good at dancing.”

“And that is precisely why you practice,” she shoots back, not at all feeling sorry for him, as she guides their movement around the floor. “Gods, no wonder you and Arya are inseparable. You’re both exactly alike.”

Her comment makes his brows furrow. It’s true that he and Arya are close, but, aside from their similarities in physical features, he’s never thought of them as being exactly alike. Where he is somber and quiet, Arya is loud and defiant. “How so?” he dares to ask, his curiosity piqued.

She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid. “You can spend hours upon hours playing with your sword. But when you’re asked to try something you’re not good at, you immediately balk at the idea and give up. It’s the same way with Arya and her needlework,” she states matter-of-factly. “I’m not at all surprised why you’re both good at only one thing.”

Before he can respond, Septa Mordane announces the end of their practice. Still caught up in what Sansa has just said, he doesn’t register the Septa’s words right away so Sansa tugs at her hands, a small frown on her face, before he comes to his senses and releases his hold. Without giving him a chance to say anything, she turns around and leaves the room, Jeyne and Beth following.

“That terrible, Snow?” Theon mocks.

 “Was it really?” Robb asks curiously.

“I… I don’t dance well,” he ends up saying.

“Well, did you ask her to teach you?” his brother replies. “Sansa’s a good teacher. She gave me quite a lot of helpful instruction.”

He merely shrugs in response.

Theon laughs even more now. “Let’s be honest, Robb. No amount of teaching will help. Snow here is a hopeless dancing fool,” he says, and then he walks away much like the girls have done. Robb gives him a sympathetic look before following after Theon.

Jon knows he ought to feel offended – he can still hear Theon’s laughter floating from the hall – but all he truly feels is awe – awe at the fact this is the first time Sansa’s spoken more than a handful of words to him, awe at the memory this brings him of a smaller version of her lecturing him on how to properly treat a lady, and awe at the realization that, in the half hour they’d been dancing, not once had he stepped on her toes.

Later that day, when Arya comes to his room and reveals to him that she’s hiding from her needlework lessons with Sansa and the other girls, Jon suggests that she go back and try, that maybe she’ll get better. After a couple of attempts, he convinces her and Arya leaves albeit begrudgingly.

Before he sleeps, he promises himself that he, too, will try harder the next time he’s asked to dance, and that perhaps he’ll have the courage to ask Sansa for instructions. Soon, he catches himself feeling quite hopeful for his next dance lesson, undoubtedly not hating it as much as he did earlier that day.

The next lesson does come but Sansa never shows herself, nor does she appear in the rest of his lessons. Two weeks later, it’s Theon who tells him why.

“The Lady Catelyn refuses to allow her beloved daughter to dance with the Bastard of Winterfell, Snow,” he says with a smirk on his face.

It’s the only time Jon punches him in the face.


	10. Farewell, Jon Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one! But I've already started on a sequel for this (if there's a before, then there's naturally going to be an after) although that might not come until later since I'm currently working on another Jonsa fic that I want to finish and publish before the next season starts.
> 
> Also I would like to say THANK YOU to every one who enjoyed this story, especially those who left comments and kudos. I'm relatively new to writing GOT fan fiction so I truly appreciate the positive feedback. I'm also sorry for not responding to comments, I will try to start replying if my social awkwardness allows me to. Again, thank you thank you thank you. :)

In her state of bliss, Sansa practically waltzes out to the yard after she was certain that the rest of Winterfell have gone to bed. She’ll be leaving for King’s Landing at dawn, and she is absolutely giddy with excitement. All her years of daydreaming about the songs she’s loved since she was a little girl, all her years of learning how to be a proper lady under the strict guidance of her septa and mother has finally led to this – daughter to the Hand of the King first, and then possibly the betrothed to the future king of Westeros.

It’s unusually quiet at this time of night. Since King Robert and the rest of the royal family arrived, the whole Winterfell has been filled with endless laughter, constant chatter and drunken ruckus. But now, she figures the men have decided to retire early to prepare for the long ride come morning.

And surprisingly, she finds herself enjoying the silence. She wants to savor the peace and stillness she knows can only be found in the home she’s known all her life. And there is no other place in the North that gives her such tranquillity than the godswood.

She hasn’t been in the godswood for a long time, mostly because she always prays with her lady mother in the sept. Other times, it’s because she feels unwelcome when she goes there and sees the rest of her siblings playing there, having not been invited to join them.

But she loves the godswood. She doesn’t say it out loud nor does she make it a point to show it. No matter how much her dreams are filled with Southron songs, she is a child of the North.

And she remembers.

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of footsteps disrupts her even before she has a chance to close her eyes. She turns around to see who they belong to and finds a face that is as distant as it is familiar.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” her half-brother stammers, stunned to see her there. “There’s no one usually here.”

“Do you always come here at this hour?” she asks.

“Aye,” he answers as he fidgets with his cloak. “I like the quiet.”

She eyes him curiously. It occurs to her that this is the first time in years that she’s alone with Jon. The need to please her mother and to act a proper lady has made her relationship with him awkward at best and strained at worst.

His uneasiness with this unexpected turn of events radiates off of him and she can practically feel it. There is even fear, she thinks – fear that she’ll say something hurtful. She’s only done so once before out of need to preserve her dignity, to make him feel left out when her siblings made her feel like she’s the one who doesn’t belong.

Contrary to what he probably thinks and what Arya certainly believes, she doesn’t hate him. She never has. She just finds it better to ignore him, to pretend he isn’t there, to make believe that her father never dishonored her mother so. That he seems to receive more attention and affection from her brothers and sister than her only makes it easier for her.

Before today, she probably would’ve waved him off or paid no mind to him whatsoever. But now that she’s about to leave, she finds herself wanting to part on better terms. She isn’t as stupid as everyone seems to think she is. She still remembers the childhood she shared with him, the times they’ve played together and made each other laugh. She can still remember how close they were before they weren’t anymore. She doubts he can say as much, but it surprises her that a part of her wants to feel some semblance of that closeness one last time.

But then, like the creaking of a door in the middle of the night, Jon’s voice breaks through the quiet. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I’ve disturbed you long enough.”

He turns to leave, but she raises a hand, making him pause. “Nonsense, Jon. We can pray together. The gods surely won’t mind,” she says as another childhood memory resurfaces in her head of the both of them with Robb praying in front of the heart tree when news of her lady mother’s pregnancy with Arya was announced.

Sheer confusion is etched on his face which she finds somewhat amusing. “I... I thought you pray to the Seven,” he says hesitantly.

And just like that, a burst of irritation blooms in her chest. It reminds her of the times she’s gone to the godswood before and Arya, in a haughty tone, would ask her why she’s there and not in the sept as though she’s committing a crime. Yes, she does pray to the Seven. It’s the faith of her mother so of course she follows them. But she is also her father’s daughter, and it infuriates her that everyone seems to forget that.  She prays to the old gods just as she prays to the Seven. Why is it that she must choose one over the other when the rest of them do not?

“Yes, I do, and I pray to the old gods as well,” she says dryly. “Is that such a crime?”

“No,” Jon answers hurriedly. “No, I just... I’m surprised is all. It’s been awhile since you last stepped foot in –“

“I know where my feet have gone, Jon Snow,” she cuts in. Despite her effort to conceal the irritation she feels, her words still come out clipped and annoyed.

“Yes, of course,” he stutters. “Well, I don’t wish to bother you any more than I already have.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. This isn’t how she imagined this conversation would be going. “You won’t as long as you keep quiet,” she says, gesturing for him to kneel down next to her.

It takes awhile for her invitation to sink in. When he takes a small step forward, she turns around to face the heart tree, hiding her smile of relief. She closes her eyes but doesn’t begin her prayers until she hears the soft crunch of approaching footsteps behind her and feels him kneel beside her.

She prays for safe travels to the south. She prays for the family who will be joining her in her journey – for her honorable father that the old gods guide him as the Hand of the King; for Arya that she’ll learn to conduct herself in a proper manner. She prays too for the family she’ll be leaving behind – for her dear mother because she knows her leaving causes her as much grief as it does joy; for her beloved Robb that he’ll be the great lord she knows he’s destined to be; for precious Bran that he’ll wake up soon and find the strength to overcome his plight; and for darling Rickon that he’ll never lose his sweet and joyful disposition. She also prays for the ones who aren’t her family but who she nonetheless feels very much like they are – Ser Jory, Ser Rodrik, Septa Mordane, Jeyne, Beth, even Harriet.

And she prays for the boy beside her. Robb had told her of their half-brother’s decision to join the Night’s Watch, and while she reacted to the news with casual indifference, a small part of her was struck with melancholy. Men of the Night’s Watch give up their whole life for the Wall – no wife, no children, no family. _What a lonely life it would be,_ she muses. Lonelier still for a bastard. She asks the gods that he’ll at least find friends who will replace the hole that no doubt Robb and Arya will leave him with.

 _Unlike me,_ she thinks all of a sudden and with a tightness in her chest that isn’t quite sadness though she can’t really tell what it is. _But I shall be queen someday. And I mustn’t dwell on things that do not concern me, especially someone that is as far away as the Wall._

Now resolved more than ever to distance herself from the past and to look to the future, Sansa prays to the gods that she’ll be a good daughter to her father, a good lady at court, a good wife to the prince, and a good future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her prayers coming to an end, she opens her eyes and finds grey eyes on her. It’s almost as if he’s heard her thoughts. She feels her cheeks flush, a bit embarrassed.

“I don’t expect you to act like a noble, Jon, but I do expect you to know that it is improper to stare at a lady,” she chides him.

He immediately drops his gaze to the snow-covered ground. “Sorry.”

“Did you even pray?” she asks in a tone that implies she already has an answer in her head and whatever he says won’t change it.

But he answers anyway. And when he does, she almost feels bad for resorting back to her curt treatment of him.

“Aye, I did,” he says almost shyly. “I asked the old gods to look after Father and Arya... and you.”

“Thank you, Jon,” she says more gently this time and with a hint of a smile on her lips. She decides to be generous in return. “I prayed for you as well. I hear you’re to join the Night’s Watch?”

“Aye.”

“Why?” she blurts out unwittingly, surprising herself. She opens her mouth to take it back, but she suddenly becomes aware of the startling realization that she really does want to know, so she waits silently instead, resigning herself to her curiosity.

Jon looks uncertain as though he’s deciding whether or not she’s sincere in her question or if she’s just baiting him. She can understand why – she’s rarely shown an ounce of interest in him. In the end, he shrugs his shoulders. “There is nothing for me here.”

She furrows her brows. “I don’t understand. You’ve lived here your entire life.”

“But I am a bastard,” he says in a low voice.

“Yes, you are,” she affirms, her voice steady and direct. She sees Jon’s face flash with hurt, but she refuses to be bothered by saying the truth, especially not when the truth is already known by all. “So what is your point?”

Jon shakes his head as he runs a hand through his black curls, and Sansa feels a flare of annoyance because it’s obvious how he is already expecting her not to understand. She wants to tell him that she’s not a little girl anymore, that she’s to be the future queen, that she knows things beyond sewing and dancing, that she understands more than anyone ever thinks she does.

“Winterfell has no place for a bastard,” he says solemnly.

His statement gives her pause, and the sadness behind it tames her annoyance slightly. But she is still confused. He says it like he’s being forced to leave which she knows isn’t true since Robb had told her that Jon practically had to force their father to agree and that he wouldn’t have been successful were it not for their Uncle Benjen’s support.

“Then pray tell how have you been living your whole life here if that were true?”

She sees him clench his fists and grit his teeth. His mannerisms tell her that the delay of his answer isn’t because of ignorance but rather hesitation to tell her what he truly feels. The longer he doesn’t answer, the more she can feel her patience thinning, but she stops herself from tapping her foot, knowing that Jon will feel less inclined to tell her if she shows her irritation.

“I don’t belong here, Sansa.” She finally hears him say. “I do not want Father or the Lady Catelyn to be dishonored by my presence here any longer. And Father will be staying in King’s Landing besides. If the lord of Winterfell isn’t here then neither should his bastard.”

“Father wants you to stay, surely you know. And Mother would have no choice but to allow it.”

She doesn’t fully understand why she keeps pressing the matter. It’s not as though she _wants_ him to stay. Truthfully, she doubts she’ll think of him at all once she leaves for the south. She’ll be too busy spending time with her Prince Joffrey and learning to be a future princess. She doesn’t expect Jon to think of her either, not when he has the rest of her siblings to think of.

“I’ve already caused your mother much… distress. And you,” he stops, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I am a Snow, and as long as I remain a Snow, my life holds no purpose here. If I take the black, I will be worth some use at least.”

As soon as he finishes, she feels something ignite in her chest and spread all over her body. And it isn’t sympathy. His words make her see red. She whips her head to the side and looks at him with eyes full of judgment. Any thought of acting like a proper lady or a future princess is suddenly gone, and in its place is this overwhelming need to wipe the brooding mask off his face.

“You may be a bastard, Jon, but you are Ned Stark’s bastard, Ned Stark who is to be the Hand of the King. Stark blood still runs through your veins and that makes your life worth more than any trueborn _Greyjoy_. Father wouldn’t have allowed your presence to shame my mother all these years if that were not true, and it’s best you remember that,” she says coolly, unleashing the wolf in her.

He stares at her with a look of complete and utter shock. And then in panic, he fumbles to pull himself together and stutters out, “I –“

“You might’ve never received my mother’s affections… or mine for that matter,” she continues, having no intentions to let him speak. “But you’ve always had Father’s and Robb’s and Arya’s and Bran’s and Rickon’s. So do not dishonor the Stark name by thinking yourself – your blood, _our_ blood – worthless, by drowning yourself in self-pity. It’s unbecoming… even for a bastard.”

Without warning, she stands up and hastily smoothes her skirts. “Farewell, Jon Snow,” she huffs before turning around to leave him, her chin raised high and her back straight like the queen she will soon be, not even bothering to look back to see if her bastard brother watches her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I never planned on giving this a happy ending so I'm sorry if you found this disappointing. I know I wanted them to have their own goodbye, but I also wanted to maintain the fragile and distant relationship they had when they both left Winterfell. And in my head, I've always thought that Sansa would find Jon's brooding infuriating since he really had her siblings' affections more than she probably ever did (save Robb, of course, because Robb and Sansa closeness exists no matter what anyone says).
> 
> Thank you for reading up until the very end. I really appreciate it. :)


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